


The Boy Who Cried Ghost

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anger Management, Background Case, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Harry Potter Next Generation, Light Angst, Magic Revealed, Missing Persons, Multi, Mystery, Past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Sibling Bonding, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 16:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18502351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: The house that the Potter's move to is very old, very draughty, and as dismal as they come. It's full of pesky creatures, vanishing bins, over-active bananas, and a piano that plays music when nobody is there. It's also full of Albus's family, persistent poltergeists, and a previously missing boy who happens to be both endearingly awkward and ratherhandsome.The latter part is the more pressing problem, if you ask Albus.





	The Boy Who Cried Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> _To read this book is to make a huge mistake. A colossal mistake, the kind that will trample all your happy thoughts and leave you lying in the fire, the frying pan almost forgotten. Please, dear reader, take heed! Do not be a big bumbling fool! My notes are not jokes, you know. Do not read any further, lest you stumble upon something you shouldn’t, something that dwells within. Something with teeth._

JULY 3rd

The house they move to is so old that it’s begun to lean. Albus peers through the red road dust pasted over the car window and takes in the scene critically. He is an excellent critic, and right now, he itches for a quill and some ink, ready to rip the place to shreds. Narrow windows of black glass— each one fogged over with ratty curtains—make the house look like it has slits for eyes. Moss sprouts from the cracks in the brick. The steps are strewn with skeletal leaves. Ivy serves as a threadbare shawl.

Dad parks the car and groans, stretching out the kinks in his stiff neck from a few hours of solid driving. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, his gaze drawn hesitantly to the ominous tower of brick, which watches them with a hawkish stare. Dad’s grimace of distaste fills the wing mirror. Mum pays the stiff silence no attention, putting her book down on one knee and climbing over the gearstick, clambering out of her seat to get a look at the house that they’re going to _live_ in. 

“It has character,” Dad says, after a minute, his voice imbued with fake, cautious cheer. He’s not very good at sounding happy when he isn’t, but Albus imagines that he’s supposed to appreciate the effort anyway. 

“Yeah,” Mum says, tapping her novel, “and if it was a character in this book, I’d think it was the villain.”

Dad chuckles, swivelling his head to look at her with undisguised fondness. They never hide their love for each other, but sometimes Albus can’t tell if they’re supposed to be best friends or loving partners. They high five when they make parenting decisions, for Christ’s sake. 

Albus drops his head back down against the seat, shifting as the ants enter his pants. Usually, he’s the least active person in the room, but he has cramps in his legs from being wedged in behind Dad’s chair for miles, and James is taking up most of the room with his large, protruding elbows and intrusive shoulders. James isn’t big, exactly, not the way a lot of Quidditch players are, but he still takes up a lot of room. 

As much as a walk would be nice (and inevitable at this point, regardless of the pleasantness of the situation) Albus doesn’t want to get out and accept the new circumstances either. It’s not going to make a difference, of course. He’s still going to have to get out of the car, pick up his bags, and move into this new place that looks like it’s one wrong move from toppling down. But he’s notorious for not doing things until the last possible minute, even when it makes him incredibly anxious and ruins his day, and he’s not about to give up the title now. 

Albus glances sideways. James and Lily are still asleep, with James in the middle and Lily drooling on his shoulder, her long hair caught under her seatbelt. It would be a sweet sight, if it weren’t for the deafening rumbles escaping James’s open mouth. Now that the engine’s died down, the snoring is even more obvious. 

Albus jerks an elbow sideways, catching James in the gut. 

James shoots upright with a haggard sound, one arm flailing out and catching the back of Dad’s chair. He doesn’t get far before his seatbelt catches him, holding him tight and stopping his ascent with a jerk. James groans, rubbing one eye, and says muzzily, “Whazzat?”

Lily’s head slipped off his shoulder at the sudden movement, and she groans too, scrunching her face up as she wakes up. Albus tries not to snicker as James pauses, taking in the patch of drool on his shoulder in disgust. 

A cough from the front of the car dries up any urge to laugh. 

Dad shoots Albus a reproachful look in the mirror, which Albus meets with his own sullen glare. They have an entire conversation just by looking that roughly boils down to, “No, Albus.” Mum sighs. Albus rolls his eyes, digging his fingers into the handle and pushing open the car door. 

Outside, the air feels crisp and cool on his skin. He shudders, pulling his sweater tighter around himself and heading towards the front steps, kicking up leaves as he goes. There are trees all around—pine and elms and leafy evergreens, each one permeating the air with a woodsy, fresh scent—and a shed that looks like it’s in the final stages of rotting to death. Behind them, the road they travelled on to get here turns left through a forest, and then off over the crest of a hill, where more civilised roads await restless wheels. They’re in the middle of nowhere. 

Albus hears footsteps behind him. He remains where he is, staring silently up at the house. Dad only waits beside him for so long, hands in his pockets, before he starts to get exasperated. 

“Albus,” Dad says, putting a hand carefully on his shoulder. He’s always careful around Albus, and it’s mostly Albus’s fault. That being said, Albus can’t help but wish that things were different sometimes. 

“Albus,” Dad repeats. He sounds more impatient this time. 

“Yeah?”

“I know things are difficult at the minute, but you’re already on thin ice, and this is supposed to be a fresh start. Maybe try to be a bit less…” Dad trails off into silence, struggling to find the words. 

“Me?” Albus suggests bitterly. He shrugs Dad’s hand off. “I’ll work on that, thanks Dad.”

Dad sighs. “That’s not what I meant, Al.”

“I know what you meant.”

There’s nothing more to say, so Albus trudges back to the car. He’s going to have to carry the boxes and bags in anyway, so he may as well get a head start and nab a good room before James can get to it. Although, judging by the state of the outside, it doesn’t seem possible for good rooms to exist in this place. 

“Wow,” Lily says, sliding gracefully out of the car, the laces of her Converse trailing in the mud. “We went from one grim old place to another, apparently.”

Her comment gets precisely zero laughs, and one glare. 

Lily pouts. “Tough crowd. Puns are the highest form of wit, you know.”

“And the biggest cause of irritation,” Mum says. She ruffles Lily’s hair, her hand catching on one of Lily’s silver clips, and she shakes it out with a small sound as the boot pops open. “The house isn’t that bad, and it’ll be nicer with everything we own in it. Come on, everybody take what they can carry.”

“Or we could use magic,” James suggests, twirling his wand pointedly. Albus steps away from him warily, well-used to James’s proclivity for harmless, _annoying_ spells. They never end up hurting Albus; James doesn’t use Curses, or Hexes, but he’s handy with a Jinx, and he knows enough trick spells and pranks to make Albus stay five feet away from him at all times. 

“Or we could not break the law immediately after moving.” Dad bumps James’s shoulder as he passes, kissing Mum’s cheek before diving in for the heaviest box. 

“I’m over age,” James reminds them, as he likes to do, moving away from the car with a badly-stifled yawn. “I’m not even in Hogwarts anymore.”

“Then move out, and do magic somewhere else.” Albus sidles around him to sling his rucksack over his shoulder, dislodging several boxes when he yanks it out from underneath them. “Go live with Teddy.”

James ruffles his hair, an edge of warning to the action. Albus stomps away from the car and up the steps to the house, ignoring the flurry of simultaneous sighs that fill the air behind him. It only sends red sparks through his stomach, to stand there and listen. 

He knows he’s being an arse. He’s been an arse for the past Merlin knows how many months, or maybe even years. It makes him feel a bit guilty, but the guilt lingers at the bottom of his stomach, mingling with all the other confusing feelings he’s got going on, so it’s easy enough to ignore. It only becomes an unbearable presence when it’s just him, lying in bed alone in the evening, or walking aimlessly through the streets of Islington, avoiding home. 

He’ll have to walk the roads of a random forest instead, from now on. The thought does nothing to douse the red sparks inside him. 

The house smells musty. Albus pulls his pocket-sized torch out and clicks it on, frowning when it blinks dully for a moment. Then a flicker of orange pierces the gloom, and he heaves his rucksack higher as he crosses the groaning floorboards, leaving footprints in the dust. There are at least three floors, and when he tips his head back, he spies a shining chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. 

Albus squints. It’s so bright, even unlit, that it almost seems like there’s no dust on the brass arms, but the rest of the house is clearly coated in cobwebs. 

“Weird,” Albus mutters. 

“What, you? No arguments here!” James barges past him, arms heaving with boxes, and races towards the stairs. “Dibs on the big room!”

“No!” Albus recovers from his stupor and takes off at a run, only to be quickly overtaken by a giggling Lily, who’s faster than both of them combined. She speeds past James somewhere on the seventeenth step and their laughter ricochettes all around him. James calls her a cheater in between cackles, while Lily skids across the hallway towards victory. Albus watches from where he’s stopped in the middle of the stairway. His stomach is doing that twisty thing it often does when he’s around his family for too long. 

“Everything alright, Al?” Mum calls from the bottom of the stairs. She winces when he aims the torch at her, and he quickly lowers it. Not as quickly as he could have, though. She has a box of kitchen stuff propped up on her hip, a spatula sticking out of the top, and her collar is rumpled. Her eyes are dark around the edges from sleepless nights, but she’s still smiling. 

It stokes the guilty coals beneath the angry fire. Albus put those dark circles there, but he sure as hell wasn’t responsible for the smile. 

Albus sighs, leaning against the banister. “Do we have a cellar? That’s where I’m gonna end up sleeping.”

“I think there’s an attic.” Mum hitches an eyebrow his way in amusement. “Will that do, or is it not appropriately grungy enough? I can probably dredge up a few shattered mirrors, black shawls, that kind of thing.”

“I like that you always support me,” Albus says, deadpan. 

Mum laughs softly. 

Albus’s torch shivers and blinks out, the battery dying, just as Dad flicks the switch near the door with a triumphant noise, sending yellow light flickering to life all over the place. They’re far enough away from wizarding civilisation that electricity shouldn’t be a problem, and Aunt Hermione gave them spells to do before they left to make it safe. 

Albus still doesn’t know why they picked this house. When Grimmauld Place became temporarily… unliveable, it had been expected that they would have to move. Dad had walked around in The Burrow in a fugue state for a while, but then his eyes narrowed in on a listing in the Prophet one morning. Next thing Albus knew, their belongings were packed up in boxes again, and they were moving here. Nobody will say why they picked here, specifically, but Albus knows there’s a secret reason. He also knows that nobody will tell him, of all people. 

The front door slams shut, and a humming starts up in the walls. Lily shrieks upstairs, presumably as James flings a Leg-Locker curse her way. Mum waits patiently for him to say what’s on his mind: Albus has a lot to say, truthfully, a lot of sorries and explanations to give, but both his parents look tired and tentatively hopeful as they converge in the hall, looking up at him. This is supposed to be a fresh start, isn’t it? He’s not going to ruin the very beginning by bringing up all the bad stuff from before. 

“An attic’s fine,” Albus says, the sparks dying in his stomach. “But if I find any bugs, I’m going to put them in Jamie’s bed.”

*

_Oh dear insensible reader, you have stumbled across something you shouldn’t have. You have ignored the most sensible of notes! Take care, for with each turn of the page, danger encroaches. One has already been lost to the beasts inside. It would be a shame to lose another, even if you are insensible at best._

*

_Back again! Back again! You haven’t closed the book for good, I see. Foolish, foolish reader. You may have ventured this far into the book, but I will do my very best to boost you out, never fear. I will unleash Bluttertuckers and Spidges and even the Madjoys! Here they come, peppering your nose! And for good reason, dear reader. For I fear that if I do not unleash these creatures, darker, more ghastly beasts will come and take you in the night. Just as they did once before._

JULY 7th

Albus hates the house that leans. It doesn’t have a name, not like Grimmauld Place or The Burrow. The brass number is so old that it’s rusted straight off the front door, but the post comes to Nineteen, near Agewood Close, even though there are no other numbered houses around to confuse it with.

So officially, Albus hates Nineteen, near Agewood Close. He scribbles it down in that stupid journal the Mind-Healer made him keep, too, just to add to the officiality of it all. 

The list of reasons for why he hates the house is long. The water is constantly cold, the pipes leak, the windows all have a draught, and there’s a persistent old-people-smell sitting squatly in every corner, wafting over him every now and again. Unnerving things are everywhere, as though the last owners left in a hurry, unable to pick up all the things they wanted to. But he can deal with that list because everyone else is suffering from those problems too. 

What he can’t deal with is the odd stuff that only seems to happen in his room. 

The books on his shelf rattle at night. The shelf is right above his bed, which is a narrow single sleeper tucked into the alcove near the window. His room, the smallest of the bedrooms, doesn’t quite make sense. The walls protrude in the wrong place, and there are scuttlings behind the blue wallpaper that keep Albus awake at night. It hums, too, like there’s electricity in the plaster rather than in the wires. 

It’s the books rattling that really keep Albus awake though. 

“I think we have a ghoul,” Albus says, early in the morning. He’s tired, his eyelids drooping as he fiddles with the orange juice cartoon. He spills some and Lily makes an indignant noise, lifting her Charms essay out of harm's way. The crossbow she found in the attic—which Albus doesn’t have to sleep in, much to his secret relief—leans against the table leg, and keeps poking Albus in the knee. 

“There’s nothing in the attic except a bunch of old furniture and clothes, and I’m not sure there’s room for a ghoul anywhere else,” Mum says. She slides a plate of toast towards James, who gobbles it up quickly, buttoning up his shirt one-handed. He’s got a summer job for a bit, to tide him over until tryouts open for various Quidditch positions. Albus doesn’t know what James has to do, or what the job entails, but he dresses marginally fancy each morning. Watching him wear a tie that isn’t Gryffindor red is a bit strange. 

“My room’s full of noises at night,” Albus says, pushing the orange juice away. “I can hear something banging on the walls. And my books keep shaking and falling down on my head.”

“So move the books, genius.” James shrugs. “Put them on a different shelf or something.” 

Albus scowls. “There’s only one shelf, _genius,_ and that wouldn’t stop them falling if there’s something pushing them off, would it?”

“You’re going to be late, Jamie,” Mum interrupts them, settling at the table with her first coffee of the day. The first of many. 

The Quibbler has a new sports feature that absently boasts the work of Ginny Weasley each month. Mum has other journalistic endeavours too, but The Quibbler always takes first priority, if only out of fondness for Luna. Albus knows there’s a deadline soon, and Mum has her thinking face in place, which means she’ll be wandering through the house in a thoughtful daze before locking herself up with parchment and a quill. They’ll be lucky if they hear a peep from her over the next few days. 

“Not that late,” James protests. 

“The clock on the wall is slow.”

James swears softly and snatches a bit of Albus’s toast right out of his hands.

“Hey!” Albus shouts, his buttery hand caught in mid-air. “You’ve had loads!”

“I’m a growing lad, Alby.” James winks, backing up out of the kitchen. “Be back around six!”

Albus gets up with a clatter, stomping over to the window specifically so he can throw a rude gesture at James as he jogs through the garden. James salutes him, jogging backwards until he reaches the road, and Albus adds another rude gesture to the mix. Mum sighs, her parental senses working overtime to see what she can’t. Albus grabs a banana on the way back and folds his knees up on the chair, peeling back the rubbery skin with moody jerks of his fingers. 

“Where’s Dad?” Lily pipes up, scribbling a footnote at the bottom of her scroll. “I didn't hear him leave this morning.”

“He left last night, actually,” Mum says, not sounding too pleased about it. “He got called into the Ministry on an emergency, some kind of… magical artefact robbery. I don't know much yet. Hey, maybe that’s what you heard last night, Albus.” Mum smiles warmly at him. “You know how noisy he can be when he’s tired.”

Albus stands abruptly, taking his banana with him as he marches towards the door. “Yeah, but he hasn’t been leaving at that time every night this week, has he? So no, mum, that’s not what I heard last night.”

He bites into the fruit viciously, turning it to mush beneath his teeth, and makes his way out into the hall, pretending not to hear his name being called exasperatedly. This is how it started last time, with weird stuff happening and Albus not talking about it. When he did talk about, he lied, and he let himself get worked up and angry, and then things tended to get a little explosive. He doesn’t blame them for not taking him seriously this time. 

Weird stuff seems to follow Albus wherever he goes. Sometimes he feels like a large, looming stormcloud, ready to smother any happy event with a bout of miserable rain. 

It takes Albus up to the first floor to eat his banana. The ground floor is made up of the vast living room full of moth-eaten furniture, where the old-people-smell is strongest, the kitchen with it’s eye-rolling inhabitants, and the study that Dad claimed immediately, already chock-a-block full of old case files. There’s one bathroom tucked at the back out of sight. The first floor has Jamie’s, Lily’s and Albus’s bedrooms on it, and another bathroom that they’ve already fought over multiple times. 

Albus pulls a face, bored even though it’s only a week into summer, a week into this new house, and reaches round his door to chuck the banana skin into the bin just inside his room. 

It lands with a soft splat on the floor. 

He stops, frowning, and steps inside his room. A quick glance shows that he didn't miss, but that the bin isn’t there anymore. Another glance around the room reveals no bin, and no other disturbances. Except for one book on the bed, flopped there despite Albus not feeling inclined to read that morning. 

“Weird,” Albus says, scowling. He prods the banana skin with his toe, but it doesn’t magically disappear, so he leaves it there. Whatever, he can get it later, after he’s finished exploring. 

Exploring turns up very little in the way of something exciting. He finds a few locked doors, and one locked door that groans in an ominous fashion when he tugs impatiently on the handle. A hallway fashioned out of darker oak than the rest of the house makes him sneeze; he runs quickly through that bit, rubbing his nose. He finds rooms filled with more dusty furniture, and some with cardboard boxes inside that don't belong to his family. It’s all dark and dreary, so he continues on, up each creaking stair until he reaches the final floor. 

There are only two rooms on the top floor. One is a bathroom, full of rusted, whistling pipes and that scratchy soap that has lilac flowers dried into it. The other room has a piano inside it, a piano wearing a sheet of dust. Albus eyes the floorboards warily; it doesn’t seem safe to have such a heavy object this high up in the house, not when the house looks derelict and halfway to falling down. But the floorboards hold steady when he steps through the doorway, accepting his presence with barely a creak or a groan. It’s been swept clean, and the windows on the far wall shine like they’ve been washed recently, and then polished with a brand new rag. 

In fact, this room seems to be the cleanest in the whole house. It’s just the piano that’s dusty. 

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and dithers, but eventually finds himself drawn to the piano. He wipes a finger through the dust on the top, and then rubs it away on his jeans. Shrugging, he moves to lift the cover, finding dull keys underneath. 

A great screech of rage rips through the silence, and Albus jerks back like he’s been burned. Noise travels in this house, he’s learned, so he can’t be certain, but he’s pretty sure that came from a few floors down. 

“Albus Severus Potter! Get down here right now!”

Albus groans, the noise bouncing off the walls. Mum must be pissed, if he’s being middle-named. Albus doesn’t know what he did, but he knows this won’t be pretty. Sighing, he casts a final, curious look at the piano, and then storms back downstairs. 

Outside Lily’s room, Mum has her hands on her hips, her expression incensed as he comes round the corner. 

“Whatever it was,” Albus says, coming to a stop a few careful feet away, “it wasn’t me.”

“Oh, yeah right!” Lily says, popping out of her room at the sound of his voice. She looks livid too, a miniature version of Mum, standing there with her hands on her hips. It’s not as an effective a stance when it comes from a thirteen-year-old, but Albus still eyes her uncertainly, wary of projectiles. He can’t see the crossbow, but that doesn’t mean he’s safe. 

“What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what you did!”

“I really, really don't.”

Lily makes another noise of suppressed rage, but Mum shushes her, and she shuts up quickly. 

“Mum, I swear,” Albus starts to say, but she holds up her hand. 

“Albus. Did you, or did you not, have a banana this morning?”

“Is that what this is about?” Albus bristles. “What, I can’t even have a banana now without pissing someone off?”

“Mind your language.” Mum sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. Then she points in Lily’s room, obviously tired of today already, and Albus shuffles forward reluctantly. He has a bad feeling. He doesn’t want to look. But his feet take him to the doorframe anyway, toes touching that little strip of metal that separates carpet from wood floor, and he peers in. 

The room stinks of banana. That’s the first thing he notices, and he wrinkles his nose because yeah, he likes bananas, likes most fruits actually, but even monkeys would protest at having to stand in here. 

He realises quite quickly why it smells so strong. 

“I didn't do that,” Albus says immediately, eyes travelling in mild horror over the banana mushed into the carpet, ground into the crumpled bed covers, and smothering every surface. Some of Lily’s books lie open on the ground, pages crinkled up and mushy with banana. “Christ, it’s like the zoo came to town or something. I didn't do that. I had _one_ banana!”

Lily is very good at cutting to the heart of something painful and sore. She scoffs, saying icily, “What does that matter? We all know how good you are with accidental magic, don't we, Albus?”

“Lily!” Mum snaps. 

_Anger is a very normal, natural human emotion. We cannot control what makes us angry, although we can do our best to avoid some known triggers. Some things are unavoidable, however, and out of our control. That doesn’t mean we can’t control how we react to it. Do you understand, Albus?_

Albus didn't like the Mind-Healer his parents sent him to; she wore oversized dresses, played with small cubes and figurines to illustrate her points, and had an upper lip that was far too stern. But he didn't have to like her to find her words useful.

It’s hard not to react the way he would have, before they moved. It’s extremely hard not to just let go of the magic surging through him, to release the boiling feeling in his gut at Lily’s smug face in a great big wave of frustrated, wordless spells. But he doesn’t. Somehow, miraculously, he doesn’t. 

Albus clenches his fists, and lets out a deep, horrible sigh. He wants to let out the magic with it, to smash everything in sight, to throw Lily’s precious books and shoes and puzzles out the window, but he can’t do that. He doesn’t want to be that person. As much as he doesn’t like Lily’s smugness, the way her face is set, he knows he’d like her upset expression even less. 

“I didn't do it,” Albus grits out. “But I’ll clean it up.”

Lily falters, clearly not expecting that. Albus hunches his shoulders and storms out of the room, brushing past Mum, who looks surprised, her anger and exasperation fading fast. 

“Where are you going?” Mum calls, stepping forward as he stalks down the hall. 

“To get stuff to clean with! Not like I can use my accidental magic for anything good, after all, and we all know it.”

Albus tries not to feel too victorious over the silence that he leaves behind. It’s not as hard as he thought—lashing out with words is still lashing out, after all, and he has the sinking feeling in his stomach that he’s going to end up having ‘a talk’ with both his parents later on. 

Halfway through scrubbing Lily’s carpet, the red sparks simmering in his stomach, Albus dumps the brush back in the bucket of warm, sudsy water and stands up. He moves quickly, ducking out of the room and crossing to his own. The door is shut, when it wasn’t before. He opens it, peering inside. 

Where the banana skin was, the bin has returned. It sits unassumingly on the floor, in the same dusty spot it had been before someone stole it. The banana skin that Albus left on the floor is gone, now, too, and the book on his bed is back up on the shelf. 

Something scuttles through the wooden skirting board near his feet. Albus sneezes abruptly, jerking back until he’s out in the hallway. His heart does something funny, an unsteady flip. 

“Weird,” Albus mutters. He shuts the door and turns back to Lily’s room, determined not to think of banana skins or bins or books anymore. But there is undoubtedly something else happening here, and it’s hard not to think about that. 

Because the fact is, Albus had absolutely nothing to do with the somewhat childish destruction of Lily’s room. Which means that somebody else did. And Albus doesn’t know who that somebody could be.

*

_Oh dear, insensible reader, I have tried to warn you. I have tried very, very hard. But you disregard my notes, and with a nose like yours, it is no wonder you cannot see the mistakes you are making. Too busy poking it where it doesn’t belong! I know just what to do with curious noses, never fear. Or do fear, if you would, because then it might not come to this._

*

_Do you know what a Bluttertucker is, dear reader? It is perhaps the silliest, saddest creature in the world. Small and compact, with a square face and lots of short, beige hairs all over its tiny body. Beneath all the fur, a skeleton of creaking, clicking bones awaits, a conglomeration of snappy little joints. It stays low to the ground, and it brings you down low too. It is a gloomy little fellow that infects the world. That is what awaits you if you stay here, if you do not leave, dear reader. Utter gloom._

JULY 9th

Laying low has never been in Albus’s nature. He’s tried a thousand times to keep out of trouble, to not get sucked up into the drama created by his classmates, but it’s mostly impossible.

People don't like him. He’s the first Potter-Weasley in Slytherin, he’s awkward and quiet, and when he does speak, he always says the first sarcastic thing that lands on his tongue. It’s not a combination of qualities that generally inspire a lot of admiration from people. 

It might not have been so bad if he’d had some good friends. Or just one good friend, actually. He thought he’d found one on the train, a blonde boy called Scorpius who shared some sweets with him, told really bad jokes, and smiled so nervously, so sweetly at him. Albus had sat back against plush red seats, watched the smoke trail past the window as they rushed to Hogwarts, and thought: _I’ve found the beginning of a best friend in Scorpius Malfoy._

A friend would have stuck up for him in a school where even his own House-mates didn't like him. A friend would have made all the bad stuff better. 

But Albus doesn’t have any friends, as much as he might not want to admit it. School is full of nasty rumours, horrible names and whispered curses that never get picked up on by teachers. Albus probably should have said something in his First Year, after Scorpius was taken out of school by Mr Malfoy, and he was left to fend for himself. But now he’s in his Fifth Year, and things have only gotten worse, and it feels like it’s too late to say anything. 

It would make sense to lie low when trouble is afoot. Instead, Albus goes about his business loudly and grumpily, and he doesn’t give a shit if anyone has a problem with that. It extends to home, too. 

After the incident with the bananas, which James laughs himself sick over and which prompts Dad to try and have another stern chat with him, it _definitely_ would make sense to lie low. Lily ignores him, leaving the room whenever he walks into it. Albus doesn’t actually mind it that much; it’s annoying because he knows he didn't do anything, but at least they can’t get into an argument if they’re not together. Plus, it leaves him with more space on the sofa, or free pick of the fruit bowl. But it’s lonely. 

Instead of lying low, he makes as much noise as possible. He spends the following morning trampling around the house with pockets full of pencil stubs and scraps of parchment, sketching things in awkward places. James almost trips over him on the way down the stairs one morning, where Albus is crouched partway down, intently drawing a patch of mould on the wall that looks like Elvis Presley. 

“The fuck,” James hisses, clutching the banister tightly in a white-knuckled grip. Albus rubs at his head where James kneed him in the temple, scowling as he puts his pencil back in his pocket. The parchment floats down the stairs. 

“Watch where you’re going,” Albus complains. 

James swears again, much more viciously this time. “You’re an absolute bloody nightmare! It’s stupidly early, my eyes aren’t even open yet, and I shouldn’t have to look out for short-arses lying in wait on the stairs.”

James continues to rant as he marches downstairs, Albus trailing reluctantly after him. They find Mum in the kitchen, hazy-eyed with sleep and article-driven fervour. 

“I don't have time to pick apart your argument today,” she says, before James is more than three words into his complaint. James stops short, mouth snapping shut in incredulous offence. 

“Well good bloody morning to you too,” James mutters, wounded.

“James, grab a box of cereal and eat it in the living room until I’m done with the table, and then you can come in and make a mess with the stove. Albus, you’re dressed and bored, so go outside and find something to do.”

“What?” Albus demands. “Why do I have to go outside?”

“Because she prefers me,” James says, grinning at him as he saunters over to grab the Shreddies on the counter. He hastens his steps when Mum aims a vicious, warning glare his way. “Alright, I’m going. Albus, don't anger it, okay?”

He slips away, laughing like a hyena when Mum’s Jinx zips past him, just missing his pyjama-clad arse. 

“God, that boy,” Mum says, sighing. “He didn't mean that, Albus, you know that, don't you? The only preference I have this morning is for silence.”

Albus ignores that, not willing to pick apart why it makes him angry to hear. “Why do I have to go outside?”

“It’s a nice day.”

“I know! I planned on enjoying it from inside the house.”

Mum sighs again, with more frustration this time. She summons an apple from the fruit bowl and sends it spiralling towards Albus. He grabs it just before it makes contact with his shoulder, making sure to utter a wounded sound anyway. 

“Any more questions?” Mum says pleasantly. 

Albus eyes her twitchy wand with distaste, then grumbles to himself as he storms out of the kitchen. He slams the front door extra hard as he leaves, wincing at the bite of cold in the air. He gets cold easily, and he might be dressed, but he’s not got a coat or a scarf. Glancing down at his worn trainers, he shrugs and starts to walk. If he gets pneumonia, it’ll be an easy way to piss everyone off and make them feel guilty for kicking him out of the house. 

_Enforcing guilt upon others is simply a way of battling your own guilt, Albus._

Albus scowls. The Mind-Healer was an old bat, and he’s not gonna think of her anymore. No matter how right her words were. 

The shed smells like something died in it recently, so Albus heads straight for it, naturally. The door opens at the lightest touch, crumbling at the hinges. Albus peers in. Sadly, there’s just a pile of old sheets in one corner, growing green at the edges, and mildew-stained shelves covered in old paint cans and abandoned tools. Everything rusts slowly, seeming to grow red and burned the longer he peers at the shadowy corners. 

Shuddering, Albus steps back out into the pale sunshine. He has a whole morning to kill, and the front of the house is dull, empty. There’s no way around the back unless he wants to slump through a big, slug-filled puddle, and from what Albus can see, it’s just fields and mushrooms out there anyway. 

He turns to the forest instead, stretched out ahead of him. Off to the right, the roads lead to the town nearby, where James is working. Down the middle is the country road that took them here. To the left, the woods are thick and silent. 

Albus puts his hand in his pocket. There’s chewing gum, paper and pencils, and his small torch, full of new batteries. In his other pocket is a blue plaster, a reel of string, and a penknife that nobody knows he has. 

His wand is in his back pocket, where Dad specifically told him not to keep it. 

Shrugging, Albus strides towards the forest. 

A line of mushrooms leads him into the first block of trees, clustered together. They grow apart after that, as the woods deepen. Albus trudges through nests of leaves, getting brambles and thorns caught in the hems of his jeans. He taps on bits of bark that look greener than the rest. A leaf falls on his head, crisp and brown, so he shreds it up and watches the dusty pieces take off on the barest breeze. 

There’s nothing to do. If he cranes his neck, he can still see the top of the house, one of the blackened windows watching him through a crooked clump of leaves. A chimney is visible too. 

Craning his neck is a mistake. Albus’s foot comes down hard on absolutely nothing. With a yelp of surprise, he sinks through the air, teetering forward and landing with an almighty splash. 

Blinking down at the water running around him, Albus’s teeth begin to chatter as the cold, wet situation catches up to him. 

“Shit,” Albus says, spitting out the word. He groans, staggering upright, his jeans absolutely soaked. He’s wet from waist to toe, and it’s freezing. “Shit!”

“Fell in the stream, eh?”

Albus jerks about wildly, searching the forest for the speaker. Water splashes around his feet, sending petulant sprays up into the air. 

“Who’s there?” 

“Up here, lad. Gods, use your eyes for something other than looking behind you.”

Albus looks up. It takes a moment before he spots a little… thing, perched on a branch high up in a birch tree, on the other side of the stream. Shivering, Albus stumbles through the water, running smoothly past his ankles, and climbs up onto a flat stone. Not quite near the bank, but close enough to see clearly. The thing in the tree narrows its eyes. 

It looks like it could be human, but not quite. The mouth is all wrong, and the face is too squashed. 

“What… who are you?” Albus asks, correcting himself carefully. He doesn’t really want to make the little unknown thing mad. Then he scowls. “Did you just watch me heading for the water without saying anything?”

The thing smirks down at him. “Buttoncook, at your service. My, you’re a pinchy little thing, aren’t you?”

“Buttoncook.”

Buttoncook scowls. “Well you don't have to say it like that. It’s a good, strong family name, I’ll have you know.”

Albus stares up at him dubiously. How does that work, then? Are there hundreds of little creatures called Buttonhook? Is he Buttoncook the Fiftieth of his name? Or is his last name Buttonhook, and his first is something appallingly embarrassing, like Bernard, or Herbert. 

In any case, Albus isn’t one to talk about names. “Nice to meet you, I guess. You didn't answer my other question.”

“Oh, I saw you. You can’t expect everyone else to do the looking for you.” Buttoncook cackles like a sharp-beaked bird, dropping down onto a lower branch. 

Albus takes an involuntary step backwards, almost slipping off the rock. He shivers again, steadying himself, grimacing at the way the wet denim of his jeans clings to his thighs. It’s going to feel itchy soon. The thought brings anger to his chest, chasing it up his throat and off his tongue. 

“You couldn’t have bloody well said anything, could you?”

Buttoncook smiles, revealing several rows of pointy teeth. “I could have, but where’s the fun in that? ‘Sides, you seem to like it in there.”

Buttoncook starts laughing when Albus scowls, eyeing the stream still surrounding him. 

It takes an entire minute to slog through the water, stumbling on tiny, rolling rocks and bits of shiny moss, and then clamber up the slippery bank. He has to use his hands, getting them muddy and disgusting. It’s far steeper on this side, as though the rest of the forest lives on another floor. It’s a mystery how he didn't see it before. 

“That stream came out of nowhere,” Albus complains, holding his dirty hands out to the sides, away from his body. It’s colder and darker on this side of the forest. “I should have been able to see it. There’s something not right with this place, is there?”

This close, Buttoncook is far easier to make out, and far less human. He swings down from the branch, nimble and sprightly, and lands on his hands in front of Albus, feet in the air. Albus jerks away, but manages not to slip down the bank. There’s something unnerving about how quickly Buttoncook can move. 

“You’re wearing a hat,” Albus says blankly, because he is. “Is that a bow-tie?”

Buttoncook springs upright and smiles up at Albus. He readjusts his bow-tie proudly, his little brown hat wobbling on his head. “Yes, yes it is! Do you like it?”

“It would look better in green.”

Buttoncook—and Albus still doesn’t know what he actually is, but it’s not a creature they’ve covered in Care of Magical Creatures class—puffs himself up, outraged. He turns on his heel and starts marching through the leaves, muttering under his breath about foul, rude little children. Albus blinks after his retreating form, then scrambles to catch up. 

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“You said it yourself,” Buttoncook snaps, glancing over his shoulder to glare at Albus. “There’s something not right about this forest. There are lots of bad, wrong things happening here. And I’ve been waiting for someone stupid to come along and fix them, and here you are!”

“Hey,” Albus protests, glaring down at the little creature. “I’m not stupid, and I’m not a child, either. I’m fifteen.”

Buttoncook stops abruptly. If he were a cat, his ears would be flat against his head, his tail quivering. Albus stops too, far less gracefully or suddenly. He stumbles forward for a step or two, then backtracks. 

“What’s wrong now?” 

“Hush,” Buttoncook says, barely moving his mouth. The wind stirs all around them, carrying with it a deep, dreary scent, much like the shed back at the house. Little chocolate brown eyes drift upwards to meet Albus’s, full of fear. Albus clenches his fists, wary. 

From deep within the wood, a low howl fills the sky. It shakes the leaves. It shakes the branches. It shakes the bones inside Albus’s body. 

“Run,” Buttoncook says. 

Albus takes a step backwards, stomach sinking into his ratty, soggy trainers. “What was that?” 

“A Dweller,” Buttoncook squeaks. “Run!” 

Buttoncook scampers up the nearest tree, disappearing from view. Albus calls out, indignant and afraid, but another low, chilling howl fills the air. 

A twig snaps nearby. 

Albus runs. His feet pound against the ground. He throws himself back towards the stream, slipping and sliding down the bank, crashing back into the water with a shocked cough at the forgotten cold. Even the stream seems to be running faster, as though trying to flee. _Run! Flee!_ it says, scurrying around rocks and fallen foliage. _Run from this place!_

His wand is in his back pocket, Albus remembers, but there’s no _time_ to fumble for it. 

“Shit, shit, shit.” Albus sprints up the thankfully smaller bank, splashing water everywhere, feeling heavy at the knees. Whatever happens, he won’t turn around, he won’t turn around, _he won’t_ —

Teeth snap at Albus’s ankles. He goes down hard, landing flat on the ground as a jaw fastens around his foot. Kicking out, Albus yells, one hand flying back to try and grab his wand. Spells run frantically through his mind, Jinxes, Curses, anything, _anything,_ but it’s no good. He can’t reach his pocket, not with the way he’s twisted, not with the way the jaw shakes him and the pain races through his leg. He starts to slide backwards, tugged there by the large, drooling mouth wrapped around his ankle, trying to bite through sodden jeans. With a cry, Albus scrabbles at the grass, jerking himself forward, one knee up to throw himself forward out of range. Then there’s a wounded sound, but not from his mouth; Albus yanks himself forward, pain exploding in his leg, and finally clears the second bank. The teeth release. The mouth retreats.

A howl rips through the forest, hungry and frustrated, much closer and louder than before. Albus lies still for a split second, gasping for breath, his wide gaze fixed on the grass beneath him. There are gouges in the mud where he pulled himself along, tufts of grass pulled free. 

Less than a second later, he’s scrambling forward and spinning round onto his back, crab-walking away as he looks for his attacker. 

There is nothing there. No vicious creatures, no monsters made of nothing but teeth and hungry mouths. Albus gets shakily to his feet, inhaling an unsteady gulp of air. There is something there, but not something he expected to see. 

On the opposite side of the stream, vast holes have appeared in the bank, dark eye sockets burrowing deep into the ground. 

Albus takes a step forward and almost crumples again. Glancing down, he groans at the state of his foot. The bottom of his jeans is all mangled and sticky, hopefully with just saliva, although that’s not much of a better thought. But even if there is, by some miracle, no blood or cuts, it still hurts.

“Might’ve just sprained it,” Albus says hopefully, crouching down to poke at the fragile jutting bone of his ankle. 

“Oh, I don’t think so dear.” 

Albus isn’t sure that he’s got much room left in him for surprises. He jerks, falling sideways into the leaves, then clambers up with less grace and speed than he’d like. The voice sounds like music, like clunky piano keys in the dark. He squints at the empty woods, moving to grab his wand. 

“Who’s there?” Albus frowns when his hand brushes the back of his pocket. There doesn’t seem to be…

“Nobody to worry about, love.” There’s the voice again. “I’m sorry you got caught up in all of this. Do you think you can walk?”

Albus, though, doesn’t reply. He’s too busy patting every pocket on his body, spinning as best as he can on his uninjured foot to stare at the leaves in horror. 

“Shit,” Albus says. “If I’ve lost it… oh, Dad’s gonna kill me!”

The music grows softer, somehow, as the voice grows louder. “Lost what?”

“My wand,” Albus whines. “I had it when I came into this bloody forest, and now it’s gone! It could be anywhere by now.”

It’s then that it strikes Albus: he’s talking to someone that he can’t see. The last thing he couldn’t see tried to _eat his foot._ This one knows that he’s unarmed. He snaps to attention, staring hard at where the voice seems to be coming from. There’s a patch of gauzy sunlight shining on a clump of bracken, but nothing else. No person-shaped thing, however small. 

“Right, I’m fed up of this. I want some answers” Albus straightens up. “Who are you? _What_ are you?”

The sunlight shivers. It’s dappled, where it peeks through the curtain of leaves above, but the blotchy shadows shift and turn at Albus’s question. As though they’re trying, very hard, to become something. 

“You still cannot see me?”

Albus squints. “I can… see something. But it just looks like shadows.” He takes a trembling, painful step backwards. “What do you want?”

“Oh, not to hurt you! Please don’t worry, love. Just one minute… I’m trying.” 

Quite suddenly, where before there was nothing but shadows, there is a person. A lady, standing tall above the floor, a rippling form made entirely of soft yellow light. Albus sighs a little, involuntary. She’s very, very pretty. 

“To help you. One moment, please.”

“You’re a ghost?” Albus asks. “But wizards can see ghosts, so that doesn’t make any sense.” 

“Usually a ghost is visible, a trapped departed soul, as it were,” the lady agrees. “I think the rules are different for a ghost that’s come back.” Albus swallows thickly. He waits in the silence, not sure why he hasn’t given in and gone sprinting away yet. Even with his ankle in this state, he should be beating a hasty retreat. The voice, though, has a quality about it. Soft and sweet, full of sorrow. It sounds a bit like his mum and gran and Aunt Fleur all mixed together. He feels as though he’s heard it before, and that’s enough to calm the frantic beating of his heart, and allow him to wait. 

Music fills the forest. It’s very, very faint, almost inaudible, but it’s there. 

“There.” The voice sounds exhausted, but satisfied. “I wasn’t sure that I could do it. If you follow the music, it will take you through a short-cut, back to your house.”

Albus takes a step forward, and the music gets infinitesimally louder. With each wobbling step, piano keys play in his ear. Albus hesitates. It’s possible that it could be a trap, a way to lure him deeper into the wood, but if that were the case, Albus suspects the music would try and lead him over the stream, not away from it. 

“Thanks, I guess,” Albus says. “I still don't know who you are, though.”

“If it grows too quiet, you’ve strayed too far…” The voice fades to nothing, ending in a soft sigh. 

“Hello?” 

When there is no reply, Albus stuffs his trembling hands in his pockets, and follows the music home. 

It takes a long, long time. Longer than he'd like. He comes back to himself, the music finally fading, just as things begin to take another troublesome turn.

Albus had plans. He had plans to hide the fact that his wand is probably being chewed on by a squirrel right now. He was going to sneak through the house, tip-toe upstairs into the bathroom, and dig out the emergency first aid kit to fix up his ankle. Then he was going to pretend like nothing had happened until he could go back out into the forest and figure out what the hell had happened. 

His plans are waylaid almost immediately by James. In fact, it’s more like they’re obliterated and stomped all over until they’re nothing but dust the very minute James enters the picture. 

“I forgot you had work,” Albus says, dithering on the porch. James, halfway out the house with a bacon sarnie being steadily devoured by his obnoxious mouth, actually jerks back at the sight of him. 

James swallows the bite of sandwich and lobs the other half on the windowsill. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Nothing,” Albus says, curling in on himself. “Now if you’d just get out of the way, I could get back to doing nothing.”

James doesn’t let him do nothing. James always has to be doing something, and Albus can’t believe he let himself forget that for more than a second. 

“Mum!” James yells, reaching out and snagging Albus by the collar. Albus squirms, hissing, but freezes with a cut-off sound when it puts too much pressure on his foot. James’s eyes grow a little wider. 

“Yeah, you’re not going anywhere,” James says, tugging him inside the house, voice firm but touch gentle. “Mum!”

Albus ends up on the sofa in the moth-eaten living room, grimacing as Mum rolls up the hem of his jeans. James stands guard in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. 

“He seemed like he was hurt,” James says. Mum makes a little noise of acknowledgement, easing the stiff, soaked fabric over his ankle. 

“You’re going to be late,” Albus snaps. “I’m fine, so you don't have to stand there.”

“I’m already late.” James shrugs. “Might as well have a good reason for it, right?”

“You haven’t even been there a week!”

“Albus,” Mum says sharply. “Are these teeth marks?”

Albus groans, flopping back against the sofa. He had hoped that nothing bit him, that it didn't break the skin, but it seems like nothing wants to go his way today. 

“The hell bit you?” James stalks closer and gapes down at his foot. Then he snickers a little. “I forgot how weird your toes were.”

Albus swears at him. He doesn’t have weird toes. They’re just a little bit smaller than makes sense. 

“James,” Mum says, “I don't know how helpful you’re being.”

“I know _exactly_ how helpful he’s being.”

James keeps snickering, although mostly at Albus’s disgruntled face now, probably. It’s distracting enough that he doesn’t quite register the sting of a healing spell at first, not until Mum is halfway done with it. Then he mumbles in pain, wriggling around, but he’s not stupid enough to move his foot. 

When the spell is finished, and the pain fades to a very dull ache, Albus sighs.

“Better?” Mum asks, patting his knee. 

“Much,” Albus says. “Thanks, Mum.”

“You don't have to thank me,” Mum says. “You do have to tell me what happened, though. What bit you?”

Albus stays stubbornly silent, suddenly afraid. He’s afraid that he’ll have to describe it, the way something grabbed him and dragged him along the ground. He’s afraid that he’ll get in trouble for losing his wand, although he didn't mean to, and that he won’t be allowed to go back and get it. He’s also afraid that they won’t believe him. 

“C’mon, Albus,” James says, sitting on the arm of the sofa. “You turned up looking like something that got buried. You were only gone for, what, an hour? Maybe less.”

Albus shudders. It felt like a lot longer than that. 

“Albus,” Mum says, exasperation creeping into her worried tone. “At least tell me what bit you, so I know whether to fill you up with potions.”

“I don't know,” Albus says quietly. “I didn't see it.”

Perhaps there’s some of that fear still in his voice, but nobody asks him anymore questions. Mum pats his knee again, a tad uncertainly, and declares that he’ll be drinking every potion he puts under his nose without argument. Albus scowls, but his heart isn’t in it. She leaves, a thoughtful look on her face, and Albus sinks into the sofa cushions. 

“Go and get clean before you fall asleep,” James says. “You look like shit.”

Albus cracks open one eye and glares at him, but James has this look on his face, like he wants to hug him. They don't hug often, though not for lack of trying on James’s part. 

“I don't look as bad as you,” Albus says, but he does reluctantly sit upright, rubbing some of the muck off his cheek. 

James snorts, leaning over to ruffle his hair with careful, tender fingers. “We both know that’s always going to be a lie, Alby. See you later, yeah? Try not to fall in any more ditches.”

Albus grumbles as James leaves. He’s tempted to say fuck it and sleep on the sofa anyway, but he can hear Mum’s quiet voice in the study fireplace, no doubt talking to Dad, and he doesn’t want to be around for the inevitable fallout. He wants to prolong it as long as possible. 

Outside, James snatches up the bacon sandwich he left on the windowsill, looks at it, and shrugs. Albus watches with distant horror as he brushes it off, taking a bite and jumping down the last few steps. 

“Disgusting,” Albus says to himself, but the amusement gives him enough energy to climb off the sofa and stumble up the stairs. He showers, throws on his comfiest clothes, and passes out on his bed. He does not feel the house shudder as it leans further away from the creeping darkness of the forest. But the books on his shelf do. They shake and quiver, and one particular volume falls from the shelf and lands, pages spread wide open, on the pillow beside Albus, waiting for him to wake up.

**Author's Note:**

> _I have warned you. I have warned and warned and warned! I have scribbled note upon note! Have you been sneezing? Trembling? Turning green and pink? Oh, how I hope not. If you haven't, it simply means the Madjoy's and Spidges haven't got to you yet. It means there is still hope that you will come your insensible senses! But if you have... then there is nothing more I can do. Nothing I can do! There is nothing I can do for a great big bumbling fool! Prepare, dear reader, for utter, utter gloom._


End file.
